


Good Boy

by vienn_peridot



Series: Little Petshop of Horrors [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Hand & Finger Kink, Master/Pet, Other, Pet Play, Praise Kink, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Vaginal Fingering, Voice Kink, pet!Drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet's pet is in a playful mood.<br/>It becomes a fun night for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kuukkeli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuukkeli/gifts).



> I am trash. Trash with a thirst.  
> My only regrets are the summary for this fic and not writing Dratchet petplay sooner.

This was nice.

No worries, no responsibilities, no past to weigh him down.

Every time Drift put on his pads, mitten-paws and tail and sat for Ratchet to fasten his collar around his neck everything just melted away.

It was better than nice and Drift tried to schedule a play session at least once a week.

Because when he had his collar and pet gear on Drift didn’t have to feel guilty about seeking Ratchet’s attention. He could get as much as he wanted, even if he had to misbehave a little to get it. Tonight he didn’t feel like misbehaving though; he felt more playful. Ratchet wasn’t too tired tonight so Drift waited for his moment, a chance to get his Master to play.

It came when Ratchet was pointlessly rubbing Drift down with a clean buffing cloth; he didn’t need it, but he loved the attention and leaned into the long, gentle strokes of the cloth over his already well-polished frame with optics half-shuttered and  engine purring happily. Ratchet finished with his sides and back and sat down, beckoning drift over. Chirring agreeably Drift crawled over and placed his helm in Ratchet’s lap and his purring intensified as the medic began gently ‘buffing’ his audial flares, humming absent-mindedly, rubbing his fingers along the helm joints of the flexible sweeps of metal.

Drift had accidentally-on-purpose lulled the medic into a false sense of security with his good behaviour. By now his master’s grip on the buffing cloth was loose, relaxed. A corner of it waved temptingly in front of Drift’s half-closed optics as Ratchet ran smooth strokes along the speedster’s helm crest. He watched it lazily, soft fabric waving back and forwards for a few moments.

Then he struck.

Before Ratchet could figure out what was going on Drift had snaked his neck around, sunk his pointed denta into the folds of the buffing cloth and tugged it halfway out of the medic’s hand, growling playfully. Ratchet tightened his grip and tried to pull the cloth from Drift’s mouth. Engine purring happily, Drift made a muffled yipping noise around his mouthful, perked his finials up and tried to play-bow as best he could with his head still most in Ratchet’s lap.

Comprehension dawned on Ratchet, spread across his faceplates in a wide, happy smile Drift saw too rarely. He tugged again and Drift pulled back harder, revving his engine in a challenge.

That was all it took to instigate a _proper_ game of tug-of-war.

Drift pulled hard on the cloth, pulling his lips back to bare his denta and mock-growling at his master, coaxing the mech to his feet. Fibers snagged on his pointed dentae and got caught, but the open, relaxed expression on Ratchet’s face at this bit of silliness from his pet was worth the small discomfort. It got to the point where Ratchet had to stand up or risk ripping the cloth apart. While he was distracted Drift secured his grip, feeling his oral solvents soak the buffing cloth.

Then the game was on.

He yipped and growled around his mouthful, pulling against Ratchet until his master’s lipplates twitched and the medic actually started grinning; a brilliant, bright-opticed expression that made Drift’s spark thrum with joy.

Then Ratchet started chuckling and egging Drift on, jerking the cloth backwards and forwards and the speedster thought his Spark would burst from its chamber. He planted his paw-mittened hands and leaned his weight backwards, growling with both his vocaliser and engine and shaking his helm violently, finials laid flat to his helm as he tried to pull the cloth from Ratchet’s hands. The medic laughed and hung on, lavishing Drift with praise that filled him with elation and started a slow coil of heat building low in his belly.

“Good boy!” Those were Drift’s favourite words to hear in a session and he fought the urge to drop the buffing cloth and start licking Ratchet’s face. Or his hands.

“You’re _so_ strong.” Drift hadn’t heard that before be he _loved_ it. He added an extra wiggle to his hips to make his tail wag, tugging harder and snarling.

“That’s a boy, come on!” The tone of Ratchet’s voice brought the first trickles of lubricant to Drift’s valve and he nearly whined.

“You can do it, Drifter!” This time Drift did whine, wriggling and jerking his helm backwards, trying to claim full possession of the improvised tug-toy.

“Look at you; you’re _gorgeous_ aren’t you, boy?” By now Drift was whining as much as growling, pleading sounds as his valve cycled restlessly and his spike started pressing against its secondary cover. He covered it by snarling and tugging harder.

“Aren’t you fierce!” He could swear Ratchet was deliberately using the tone of voice he knew revved Drift up the most. The speedster could feel lubricant starting to seep through his covers, dampening the inside of his armour.

“Such a _strong_ boy, aren’t you? So good.”

That did it. Drift felt his primary interfacing armour open, the secondary ones becoming _more_ than uncomfortable as his spike and valve both pulsed. He eased up on the now thoroughly mauled cloth, widening his optics up at Ratchet and whining plaintively, little trails of drool running down his chin. The speedster’s painfully aroused state was obvious from his revving engine and the speed of his fans alone, but Ratchet pretended ignorance.

“What is it, Drifter? Is something wrong?” Ratchet used Drift’s Pet Name and a voice full of concern as he let go of the buffing cloth and started a slow examination of the speedster’s frame.

He went over every inch of Drift’s plating with cunning fingers that stoked the heat burning through the speedster, taking his own sweet time with his exam. The pace he set was so excruciatingly slow Drift figured it would take him at least ten minutes to get as far as Drift’s hips.

_Primus below, I can’t wait that long!_

Trying to hint that his master was taking too long Drift whined and wriggled, pulling out of Ratchet’s hands. He twisted around and pressed his chest to the floor, presenting his leaking valve cover to the medic. Drift had moved so fast his tail flicked up to lie along his spine and the bushy tip ticked the tips of his finials.

“Oh I see, is there something wrong here?” False innocence dripped from Ratchet’s words and he moved closer, stroking the smooth, recently-buffed curve of Drift’s aft. “Open up and let me see, there’s a good boy.”

Deciding to be cheeky, Drift opened both covers at the same time. His spike pressurised instantly, hanging heavily towards the floor while his valve started leaking down the inside of his thighs. Ratchet tutted, carefully sliding his thumbs between the speedster’s outer folds and spreading him wide.

“Yes, this looks like a problem alright.” Ratchet said sympathetically. “Would you like me to take care of this so we can play some more, Drifter?”

Drift pressed his hips backwards, whining desperately and starting to drool onto the floor. He could feel the hot pressure of Ratchet’s gaze on him, in him, and he knew that the way his valve was clenching made the biolights lining his entrance look like they were flashing and it just made him burn hotter.

 _Welcome lights, a landing strip. Come inside, good doctor. Oh Primus, PLEASE come inside_.

“Alright then.” Ratchet said in a soothing voice, removing his thumbs from Drift’s spread valve and replacing them with two fingers that he slid into the hot, rippling passage.

Moaning with relief and chirring happily, Drift relaxed into his pose as Ratchet expertly stroked the lining of his valve, finding all the best spots. He could feel lubricant running down his legs so he widened his stance a little, hoping to keep his kneepads at least a little bit clean this time.

Behind him Ratchet kept up a murmered litany of praise that was completely at odds with the obscene squelching coming from Drift’s valve as the medic vigorously finger-fragged Drift to a howling overload, spike spurting all over the floor and callipers cinching down so tightly he felt Ratchet shudder through an overload behind him. He didn’t stop to think, leaning forwards to remove Ratchet’s fingers from his valve and whirling in place to see his master kneeling with a slightly dazed look on his face and a spray of silver down his thigh. Ratchet’s spike hung limp and there was a small puddle on the floor beneath the medic.

Whining with false concern Drift sniffed at the red, lubricant-coated hand that still hung in mid-air. Then he purred, perked his finials up and began to lick. He didn’t mind the taste of his own fluids, although privately he thought Ratchet tasted better.

Drift flicked his glossa over little crevices and sensors he knew his master liked, thoroughly cleaning the fingers before taking them into his mouth and sucking. He purred as he sucked and tried to kneed at Ratchet’s thighs with his mittened hands and slurped, enjoying the way his master moaned and slid his free hand up to rub the base of Drift’s finials, finding his vocaliser again in a stream of praise that had Drift’s array perking up again. He glanced down and saw Ratchet’s spike was erect and pulsing subtly. Drift was seriously considering leaving off servicing Ratchet’s fingers and switching to his spike his master shook himself and issued a command.

Obediently Drift dropped Ratchet’s fingers and presented himself has he had before, purring with anticipation.

Ratchet was on him in a sparkbeat, spike sliding into the slick embrace of Drift’s valve with a long satisfied moan. It was bliss, the way Ratchet’s spike filled him and satisfied nodes that had been neglected during the finger-fragging and Drift sighed happily, leaning his hips back into his master’s strong thrusts, purring louder at the praise showered on him.

It didn’t last long, Drift must have done a little _too_ well with his glossa because Ratchet overloaded with a shuddering cry, grinding his hips into Drift’s aft as he overloaded deep inside the speedster. Drift was trembling, the hot flood from Ratchet’s spike slowly oozing from his valve not quite enough stimulation to let him overload.

 _I’m so_ close. _Please master, please._

Drift wouldn’t speak but he would –and did- give voice to a pleading whimper as Ratchet collapsed forward over him, fans whirring loudly and obviously spent. Somehow he managed to speak without a hint of static, using that deep, silky tone of voice that always turned Drift on as he reached up to lazily stroke a finger along one of Drift’s finials.

“You’re such a good boy, Drifter. _My_ good boy.”

The praise, the claim, the tone of voice and the touch to his audial sent Drift into a powerful overload, valve closing on Ratchet’s flaccid spike and forcing their combined fluids out of his valve to splatter on the floor. The pleasure was so intense that he even blacked out briefly, waking up on the couch with his helm in Ratchet’s lap and the medic stroking his helm and neck.

Drift purred and nuzzled his master, making plans to get a proper tug-toy before their next playtime.


End file.
